The Matter of the Dematerializing Armored Car Read online

  THE MATTER OF THE DEMATERIALIZING ARMORED CAR

  UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF TREASURY CAPER

  STEVE LEVI

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  [email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-751-2

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-59433-752-9

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2018935163

  Copyright 2018 Steve Levi

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  There is never a moment when you should not be Triple-C: Calm, Cool and Collected.

  . . . .Heinz Noonan

  Contents

  Monday

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Wednesday

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Thursday

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Friday

  Chapter 39

  Saturday

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  MONDAY

  Chapter 1

  Captain Heinz Noonan, the “Bearded Holmes” of the Sandersonville, North Carolina, Police Department, was hard at work on an unresponsive bagel when the first call of Monday morning came in. Setting the rock-hard-yet-hot circle of baked dough on a pile of interoffice memos, he reached for the phone.

  Unfortunately for him, it was not the desk phone ringing.

  The ringing came from the spawn of the devil, the “Great Disrupter” of all things holy and rational: his cell phone. Noonan was no enemy of progress, just certain aspects of progress—most specifically and uniquely, the cell phone. It was the disturber of the natural order of things. It brought communication with individuals with whom he had nothing in common but air, water, and the love of chocolate. You could converse with friends and family at your leisure and pleasure, but the cell phone brought a world of disreputable fellows and their collaterals to your door—or, rather, to your ear. Even more deleterious, you were joined at the hip with the evil incarnate.

  Worst of all were the malevolent, malicious, and villainous individuals who viewed—and used—the electronic goblin as a means of supervisory control. In Noonan’s life, these individuals were limited to one: Sandersonville Commissioner of Homeland Security Edward Paul Lizzard III, Napoleonic of stature but with the brainpower of a gnat. Captain of Detectives, Heinz Noonan, was the commissioner’s favorite “cell phone buddy”—as the commissioner said on too many occasions—because Noonan “got things done.” In a world of manyana people who worked on “river time,” Noonan was stand-alone because he was a “finisher.” When the commissioner “asked” something to be done, Noonan complied. Noonan complied quickly because he wanted as little as possible to do with the Commissioner of Homeland security, homeland security, or homeland in general. Noonan was so dedicated to the discovery and prosecution of murderers, burglars, and other disreputable folk in the Sandersonville environs that he had little time for chasing illusory, suspected, phantomlike, embedded Isis sharia-peddling operatives undercover, lurking and planning some dastardly deed in Sandersonville, North Carolina, a beach community where there were more T-shirt shops than there were mosques between Key West, Florida and Madawaska, Maine.

  But Commissioner of Homeland Security Edward Paul Lizzard was—and it was a very sizable and important was—Noonan’s immediate supervisor, so Noonan, unfortunately, had to take the call.

  “Noonan here.”

  “Ah, Captain,” the voice on the other end of the line began both smoothly and politically correct. “It’s so good for you to be in your office.”

  “Really?” Noonan snapped within one iota of edge less than insubordination. “I decided to take the morning off from looking for burglars, rapists, and murders just to be here to take your call.”

  “You are such a card, Noonan.” This comment was followed by a socially and politically correct chuckle.

  Noonan tried to speed the call along. “I try to satisfy. Was there a reason for your call (pause because, to overuse a metaphor, Noonan could only poke the tiger in its cage), Commissioner?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. A rather interesting matter came to my attention this morning.”

  “I see.” The short sentence was as noncommittal as Noonan could be. “And . . .” He let the sentence end there.

  “It’s an interesting case.”

  “And . . .”

  “Exactly your cup of tea.”

  “And . . .”

  “You are free for a few hours, yes? This should not take long.”

  “And . . .”

  “Excellent. I’ll have John Swensen of the Swensen Armored Car Company give you a call. Seems he’s lost one of his armoreds.”

  “Lost? As in stolen?”

  “Nothing so dramatic, Captain. It’s just vanished. En route to a pickup.”

  “En route? So it was empty. Had no money inside?”

  “Probably not. This is not a robbery. It’s one of those cases you are so good at solving. You know, a ‘what’s happening here?’”

  “Well, sir . . .”

  “Commissioner.”

  “Well, Commissioner, this does not sound like a police matter. I mean, with no money stolen, there is no crime; just a missing vehicle. Now if the armored car had been stolen, it would be another matter. As it is, we, your department, is up to its elbows in real crimes.”

  “This won’t take long, Noonan. Not for a man of your caliber. I’m sure you can wrap this up rather quickly. Maybe by this afternoon. Do a good job so we can look good in the newspapers.”

  We, thought Noonan with a grimace. You mean you. But before he could utter another word, the phone went dead.

  Chapter 2

  Lenny Rusnak was a drinker, not a druggy. This was not meant to imply he was an alcoholic, a habitual drunk or anything close to it. In his younger days, yes, he had been a drunk; but a Friday-Saturday-night drunk. He didn’t drink during the week but on those weekends! Then he just stopped. Saw too many of his friends get DUIs. In those days he could not afford even one DUI. Actually, he could not afford one even now.

  But he was as close to a druggy now as he had ever been. Unfortunately, his friends said, fortunately, his VA doctor told him, and perforce he had to say, the drugs were legal. Three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan left him with a habit: Sertraline, Paroxetine, Fluoxetine, and Venlafaxine. In the old days, a cocktail was the starting gu
n of an evening of adventure. These days it was a brutal reminder of what he wanted to forget.

  Colorado Springs was a long way in miles from Mosul, Sadr City, and Kandahar—during the day. But at night, they were as close as his pillow.

  Over the years, he’d been getting better. He had hung up his uniform, got married, and was slip-sliding into the American middle class. After all, he was a successful entrepreneur. He had sales outlets in Fort Collins, Boulder, and Denver in addition to the two here in Colorado Springs. All the sales were doing a land-office business, and he was planning yet another two, one in Grand Junction and another in Pueblo. He had dreams of opening other operations out of Colorado, of going national. Big-time. The demand was there, but the supply was not.

  That being said, there were seven problems to expanding across the Colorado border: New Mexico, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Arizona.

  Recreational marijuana was not legal in those states. Yet. Legalization was coming fast, but it wasn’t here yet. But until it was nationwide, he had one very large problem to solve.

  Chapter 3

  Noonan was still battling the rock-hard bagel an hour later when the next call came in. Setting the recalcitrant circle of baked dough on his desk blotter, he answered the phone.

  The office phone this time.

  “Is this Chief of Detectives Heinz Noonan?”

  “Hope so. I’d hate to think I’m answering someone else’s phone.”

  “Yeah, that could be a problem. Hey, I hate to bother you this early on a Monday morning, but I’ve got a problem that might be a crime. But then, again, it might not.”

  Noonan looked at the bagel. “Well, I’ve got a circle of rock-hard dough that might be a bagel but then, again, it might not. But let’s hear your problem first.”

  “Actually, I can probably solve your problem faster than you can solve mine. If it’s a hard bagel, put it in a microwave with a cup of water. Give it a thirty-second blast, and the water will make the bagel softer.”

  “Not a bad suggestion. I’ll give it a try. Now, how about your problem?”

  “Hopefully this is a wasted phone call. My name is John Swensen, and I’m the president and owner of the Swensen Armored Car Company here in Sandersonville. Your commissioner, Lizzard, suggested I give you a call. It seems one of our vehicles has gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Right. It went into a tunnel and never came out.”

  “There’s only one tunnel in this area, the Pamlico Tunnel. Between Sandersonville and Pamlico City. Is that the one you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not very long.”

  “Correct. But long enough for an armored truck to disappear.”

  “The armored truck went in and never came out?”

  “I know how crazy it sounds, Captain, but it’s the truth. It went in and never came out.”

  “Heinz.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Heinz. When I’m investigating a crime, I’m Captain Noonan. But usually just captain. So far there is no crime here.”

  “Fine with me, Heinz. What we have is a missing armored truck. So far. No money stolen. Just a missing armored.”

  “What about the armored drivers?”

  “Disappeared as well. We don’t know where they are. What makes it more perplexing is that we had four men, guards, on motorcycles watching the vehicle—two in front and two in back.”

  “And they didn’t see anything?” Noonan was incredulous.

  “Zip.”

  “You had four men on motorcycles, two in front of the armored and two behind it, and the truck just poofed away? They didn’t see anything? The armored was just gone?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

  “I hope so. I’m not into black magic.”

  “The armored disappeared into a tunnel. The guards were following procedure. There were two men on motorcycles at the entrance to the tunnel and two at the exit. The construction crew was only letting a few vehicles through at a time. In convoys. Two motorcycles went through first and secured the exit to the tunnel. That left other two behind. Then the armored car went through. Once the armored vehicle was out the other side, the two men at the entrance to the tunnel would go through. This is all standard for cases like this.”

  “Why?”

  “A matter of insurance more than anything else. If there were to be an attempt on the armored truck in a tunnel, we don’t want any civilians getting hurt. If there were a firefight in the tunnel, such things are bound to happen. Statistically. So, we don’t escort the armored vehicles into tunnels. We send some guards to the far side to cover the exit. The armored vehicle enters the tunnel, and the guards in back cover the back door. It’s what we call the ‘back door.’”

  “I see,” said Noonan. “So your people followed procedure.”

  “To the letter.”

  “And then?”

  “Nothing. The two forward guards went through the tunnel and set up on the far side. The armored went into the tunnel with a convoy, while the other two guards stayed at the entrance. When the convoy got to the other side of the tunnel, the armored car was gone.”

  “What did the escort on the other side of the tunnel say?”

  “There was a conversation among the guards, and then one of the guards from the exit side of the tunnel came back. He was looking to see if the armored had stalled in the tunnel or was with another convoy.”

  “But it wasn’t there.”

  “Correct. The tunnel was empty.”

  “Then things got very crazy very fast, right?”

  “You got that right,” Swensen said. “Very crazy, very fast.” He paused for a moment. “All the guards agreed the armored car was gone. The men at the entrance watched the armored vehicle go into the tunnel, but the men on the other side did not see it come out.”

  Noonan shook his head as if to clear his thinking. “I don’t want you to think I’m an idiot, but what I hear you saying is your guards saw an armored car go into a tunnel, and it never came out the other side. We’re talking about the Pamlico Tunnel, aren’t we? It’s only about two or three thousand feet long.”

  “Right. The armored car went into the west end of the Pamlico Tunnel and didn’t come out the east end.”

  Chapter 4

  Curtis Jackson was a bankster—and he had no apologies for the characterization. He also had no qualms, hesitation, regrets, or remorse about his choice of occupation. Nor did he have any fear of eternal retribution. He wasn’t doing the devil’s work; he was doing the bank’s work. His bank. As the majority shareholder, he was the bank. Banking was a crooked business; the law of supply and demand an academic delusion. Everyone in banking was cheating their customers, cutting quality corners, lying to their shareholders, fudging on their corporate tax forms, committing insider trading, colluding, hiding assets, and perpetrating every manner and shade of deception known and unknown to auditors, regulators, accountants, and examiners. The banksters could do it because they were banksters, and, as everyone knew, you can steal more with a pen than a gun—and Jackson was mighty with the pen.

  Jackson had no shame because he was, after all, a bankster. Banksters, like defense lawyers, are immune to shame. Shame is not an occupational hazard in either of these industries. Jackson was privileged: institutionally, historically, legally, and personally. He was in an industry that was too big to fail, and banksters were too big to be jailed.

  Jackson relished the fact he was knee-deep in a Shakespearean banking drama. The problem: he was not sure which drama was involved—Much Ado About Nothing or Hamlet or Macbeth or Julius Caesar. It was a modern drama to be sure, but whether it was a comedy or a tragedy had yet to revealed. All he knew—to be sure—was that the drama was quite complicated.

  Legality was another matter altogether.

  But then again, he was into banking, which was a Shakespearean world of its own. Every banker worth his or her salt was Iago, the
Janus of Othello. The industry was replete with Cassius and had more than a few Shylocks—of both The Merchant of Venice and the streets of American cities, large and small. It was an industry that had no laws, only limits. It was not as if there was a legal precipice, and one step over the lip doomed you to fall into oblivion. Or, fail into oblivion. Rather, what was legal in the banking community depended on three things happening.

  In unison.

  First, you had to make sure what you were doing was not perceived to be a Lone Ranger action. If every other bank was doing it, well, they could not get you all. The logic was, of course, it must be legal if everyone was doing it. After all, if the state and federal regulators did not do anything about what you were doing, it was legal. The regulators were the deciders. Banksters did not go to courts; they went to arbitration meetings. If ever a bankster should have gone to jail, it would have been in the Subprime Mortgage debacle of 2007 to 2009. Twenty-two trillion dollars was lost over a two-year period, and not a single bankster went to jail.

  Jackson was well aware of the reason no banksters went to jail. It was a simple reality and could be summed up in three letters: SOP. What had been done was SOP, which is “Standard Operating Procedures.” If what the banks had been doing had been illegal, someone would have been prosecuted long before the debacle. So, from a bankster’s point of view, what the industry was doing was legal because no one had been prosecuted. Then why had there been a subprime mortgage debacle? Why, it was a black swan, a recently coined financial/economic term for an event causing a major effect that could only be understood with hindsight. In terms of the street—Main, not Wall—it was the epitome of “they never saw it coming.” This, with hindsight, was a crock because the disaster was twenty-twenty in the eyes of some investors, and they made a killing selling the crisis short—and earned starring reference in the hit movie Selling Short.

  But still, not a single bankster went to jail.

  Second, it was illegal if what you were doing was less than an arm’s length transaction. If there was no paper trail linking the decision-maker at the bank with the alleged-to-be violation of the law, said action was a down-the-administrative-chain error. Error is not felonious. Felony stupidity is not a crime. Both changed the critical aspects of a fiscal decision. You could move whatever money you wanted as long as there was a buffer between you and the initial transaction. A bankster could not let his bank pay off his own home loan and then write off the mortgage income loss as a bad debt for the bank. But a bankster across town could arrange for his bank to buy your mortgage while your bank bought his mortgage. Then, mysteriously, if both mortgages “went bad,” there was nothing illegal going on. There was no paper trail connecting the two transactions. No paper trail, no crime. No harm, no foul even if you and the other banker ended up living in mortgage-free homes. As long as no bank lost money, all was well in both banks. So the feds ended up with the losses. Such was the business.